One can't be too cautious about the
people one meets in Tangier. They're all
weirdies of one kind or another.
Me? Oh,
The Place de France is thetown's hub. It marks the endof Boulevard Pasteur, the maindrag of the westernized part ofthe city, and the beginning ofRue de la Liberté, which leadsdown to the Grand Socco andthe medina. In a three-minutewalk from the Place de Franceyou can go from an ultra-modern,California-like resort to theBaghdad of Harun al-Rashid.
It's quite a town, Tangier.
King-size sidewalk cafes occupythree of the strategiccorners on the Place de France.The Cafe de Paris serves thebest draft beer in town, gets allthe better custom, and has threeshoeshine boys attached to theestablishment. You can sit of asunny morning and read theParis edition of the New YorkHerald Tribune while gettingyour shoes done up like mirrorsfor thirty Moroccan francswhich comes to about five centsat current exchange.
You can sit there, after thepaper's read, sip your expressoand watch the people go by.
Tangier is possibly the mostcosmopolitan city in the world.In native costume you'll seeBerber and Rif, Arab and BlueMan, and occasionally a Senegalesefrom further south. InEuropean dress you'll see Japsand Chinese, Hindus and Turks,Levantines and Filipinos, NorthAmericans and South Americans,and, of course, even Europeans—fromboth sides of theCurtain.
In Tangier you'll find some ofthe world's poorest and some ofthe richest. The poorest will tryto sell you anything from ashoeshine to their not very lily-whitebodies, and the richest willavoid your eyes, afraid youmight try to sell them something.
In spite of recent changes, thetown still has its unique qualities.As a result of them the permanentpopulation includessmugglers and black-marketeers,fugitives from justice and internationalcon men, espionageand counter-espionage agents,homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, alcoholics,drug addicts, displacedpersons, ex-royalty, and subversivesof every flavor. Local lawlimits the activities of few ofthese.
Like I said, it's quite a town.
I looked up from my HeraldTribune and said, "Hello, Paul.Anything new cooking?"
He sank into the chair oppositeme and looked around forthe waiter. The tables were allcrowded and since mine was aface he recognized, he assumedhe was welcome to intrude. It wasmore or less standard procedureat the Cafe de Paris. It wasn'ta place to go if you wanted tobe alone.
Paul said, "How are you,Rupert? Haven't seen you fordonkey's years."
The waiter came along andPaul ordered a glass of beer.Paul was an easy-going, sallow-facedlittle man. I vaguely rememberedsomebody saying hewas from Liverpool and inexports.
"What's in the newspaper?"he said, disinterestedly.
"Pogo and Albert are goingto fight a duel," I told him, "andLil Abner is becoming a rock'n'rollsinger."
He grunted.
"Oh," I said, "the intellectualtype." I scanned the front page."The Russkies have put upanother manned satellite."
"They have, eh? How big?"
"Several times bigger thananything we Americans have."
The beer came and lookedgood, so I ordered a glass too.
Paul said, "What ever happenedto those poxy flyingsaucers?"
"What flying saucers?"
A French girl went by with apoodle so finely clipped as to lookas though it'd been shaven. Thegirl was in the latest fromParis. Every pore in